Poetry: The different minds of a writer

This is the first thing I wrote that seemed to make sense. At least, my dad took it seriously. He whipped out his guitar and played a little tune to it – and then, it became a song. It is my earliest memory of him approving something I did. Looking at the poem now, it was so simple – perhaps too simple. I miss the simplicity that life had in those days.

“Jesus was my rock yesterday,

Jesus is my rock today,

Jesus will be my rock tomorrow,

He is my rock forever.”

The task mistress, age 7.

Sometimes, I am able to stand in someone else’s shoes like I did with this poem written four years ago. It’s the last poem I wrote. I think it lacks that emotional element and is rather mechanistic, perhaps because it didn’t come from “over my shoulder”. I basically sat down and said to myself, “I’m going to write a poem, damn it!”. I’ll let you judge for yourself but I think solitude had already left me at this point.

“I wish you could see me now,

The wonderful person I turned out

To be;

Even though, I don’t live the life

That you had planned for me;

And you never said how proud

You were of me,

I still dream that one day,

We will stand,

Face to face;

On an even playing ground,

And I could say the things that

I always wanted you to know;

The words that failed me;

When you left in the snow.”

The task mistress, age 29.

And there were those times when I was so overwhelmed – to the point of compulsion that I had to put myself in a room and write. Those poems hardly needed a rewrite as they were what they were – raw, honest, and with a tinge of prophecy…

“The complexity of the mind has continued to fascinate the humble and small.
A wave of emotion brings to an end pain of old, no matter how tall.
Great and mighty one, keep this wind from swallowing me up.
I want to think with my head but now I can’t stop.
They say the storm has calmed but I am frightened to come out and play.
My heart grows daily. It has increased even in my shell.
The peace is enormous, who can I tell?
These are the things that are bigger than me.

The rooms get smaller when it’s just she and he.
Have the doves told my secrets too soon?
May life bring to us what we hunger and need.
Each sows and gathers a multitude of seed.
So the sun will be bright and the harvest will come.
The fruits are plentiful and my heart finds a home.
These are the things that are bigger than me.

I’ll tell you a tale of her instant redemption.
The mountain was high but she ventured to try.
Her feet had almost slipped, her faith had nearly stumbled.
Then, white were the garments He wore –
Luminous, blinding her thoughts.
Up on the peak was His face.
The harvest had indeed brought with it grace.
Many will gather to see this day go by.
All that is in my heart He knows. Why?
Some struggle to escape this fate.
Some succeed but others do not.

I’ll tell you a tale of her instant redemption.
The story that is told from here for her generation.
Of a man without a face and a mountain that touched the sky,
Of the time she swore she’d never cry and,
On her knees prayed that she could fly,
Of a love grown so deep and a river with no real source;
Of the music she heard from across the room and,
The way she would hum the tune for seasons to come.
These are the things that are bigger than me.

For the very reasons we build walls instead of bridges,
From the harvest fields to the mountain tops,
Grace and peace this tree will yield.
For these were the things that were bigger than me but my heart did grow and find a home,
Now she waits for rain and what dreams may come…”

I agree – well done. Good stuff …. and I too am delighted you posted them for us to read. There is a difference in maturity between the “19” and “29” poems. They have a different feel. You state that “Bigger than me” is the unedited version. I think the theme and sentiments are well worth exploring and it’s a great topic. You could sharpen this into something exquisite now that you’re older and wiser. 🙂